Sandy Shores
by Fluffity
Summary: One shot. Drabble on our favorite, or not so favorite, junkie. Set in the episode Abandoned. Lengthier summary inside.


Quotes are being referenced via memory; the differences between the actual wording and mine are there, but not crucial. You get the drift. Saw "Abandoned" and was amused by the Locke-Charlie dialogue and the increasingly unstable situation between Claire and Charlie. Also as an influence, was Charlie's bastardly behavior in since the beginning of the second season; I loved the recovering junkie until he started snapping at everyone for nothing. There just had to be some reason that his attitude changed like that. And here it is.

Sandy Shores

"For all I know he could be some kind of religious fanatic!" Oh Claire, love, you wouldn't be able to understand the fanaticism I have for my god. The god of heroin. I'm watching them from my spot in the trees. John seems too preoccupied to notice. Good.

It's been a couple of months since I've stopped, four months since we crashed on this god forsaken island. It's all a load of bollocks; an invisible monster tearing through the jungle, heat, damn Sawyer and his hoard, Sayid and said bastard at each other's throats. But you know what, I think the plane crash had some good.

No, hear me out. I'm not going crazy. Well, I might be. I am talking to myself right now, aren't I? I mean, other than the hatch and the countdown within it ticking away every one hundred and eight bloody seconds, life's not that bad anymore is it? Hurley, great guy, you know. I'm sorry that I snapped at him the other day for withholding the food. Just stirs me the wrong way whenever I see him though. He always looks a bit…plumper…as the days go by. Er, that aside, I think I misunderstood what was going on. It's eating away at me now, this emotion that seems so common as of late.

Could be regret.

Ever since Liam first showed me that bag of heroin and I started the same downward spiral big brother did, there was this nagging feeling in the bag of my mind. Under the drug-induced haze that was the last few years of my life, everything was fuzzy, hazy, wondrously happy. No one could touch me, least of all myself. But all the while I knew it wasn't right, knew that this was leading me further down into a pit of self-righteous hate. Because I took the stuff to conform, to fit in with the rock star crowd. God I loathe myself for that. And all the while I regretted becoming what I did—scrambling from place to place, person to person for money to feed the addiction—but couldn't stop. It's helplessness, this obsession, this craving, this need. Yet it wasn't just regret. There wasn't just one emotion gnawing at me; there was more.

There was guilt.

When I saw the messes I had created, what had become of the people who had trusted and loved me, I realized something. It was my fault. All of it. It was my damn problem, my disease, my poison that was slowly eating away at everyone's lives. Through the bliss, I felt that guilt laughing at me and my mistakes. Because I wanted so badly to get some of this vile toxin from the plane, I disregarded Jack and Kate's safety all those months ago. Locke and Jack helped wean me off, feeling that craving tear me apart as I went cold turkey. I would've done anything. Anything for a minute taste. That was then, and now…with this statuette in my bag…I feel it all over again.

It's agony.

Ethan was the trigger, I'm sure of it. When that bastard kidnapped Claire, I was jittery. Sleep, sustenance, hygiene, none of it mattered. My body groaned under the pressure, parched lips and chaffed tongue all yearning for that little puff of powder. Powder, fine white, white as the sands of the beach, of purity, of innocence. Of death. It's another beautiful fucking day here in the middle of nowhere, so I walk over to the surf and stare at the blinding whiteness of the sand, the encroaching tide slowly edging forward. White to gray, gray back to white. The individual grains of sand…slips through the fingers…like a flow of water…so beautiful, so abrasive…

"Up for a game of backgammon?" Damn that voice! The spell is broken, Locke looking down at me, smiling amicably. Down? When did I sit down? In his hand is the familiar white and black board. All I can think of is the sandy shore…and a little statue back in the camp. I force a smile and nod at the figure silhouetted against the sun. Come on. Do it for her, Charlie. Hold out for her. Thoughts race through my had as Locke settles down in the sand beside me…and we begin our game.


End file.
